Moments in Between
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: During Civil War: Wanda's annoyed that she's under house arrest in Avengers Tower. Vision, in an attempt to calm her down, offers to make some kind of food with her to go with the paprikash. She becomes obsessed with making cranberry kissel, a traditional drink that reminds her of her brother, the only person who ever understood her.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Avengers.**

 **This is a Christmas one-shot for Emily, who requested Scarlet Witch/Vision. I haven't seen the movies in a little bit, but I brushed myself up on canon. However, if there's some vital piece of information that I've forgotten/completely gone against, please forgive me. :)**

Wanda paced her bedroom in the Avengers Tower with huffs breaking up her every breath. It was a good thing Tony Stark wasn't here at this moment; she'd burned a hole straight through his chest right after she slapped him across his face. What an insult! To lock her up in here like a petulant child in desperate need of a timeout! She could control herself! He pretended that this was a defensive measure meant to keep a nuclear bomb in check. Little did he know that his efforts rather set the bomb to blow himself.

"Wanda, are you going to come out?" Vision's nervous voice came from outside the door. He felt quite clumsy, dealing with female humans and their emotions. He knew next-to-nothing about them; all he knew was that Wanda was insulted and upset, and he hadn't a clue on how to retrieve her previous good mood.

He listened to a series of locks being unlocked from the opposite side of the door before Wanda threw the door open and fixed him with a proud, angry glare. "Oh, I'm allowed to come out of my room? Am I allowed on a lower floor, or am I restrained to stay just on this one?" Tension and anger was threaded throughout her words. Unspeakable stress about the Accords and this civil unrest pushing her friends to either side wracked her; this forced house-arrest was the icing on the cake. Two seconds from cracking, she unleashed her anger in the safest way she could—in her voice, at her guardian, who would just have to take it.

"I am not your parent restricting you to your room. Feel free to explore the Tower," Vision said factually.

"As long as you're trailing me the entire time. Am I not correct?" She slammed the door in his face, somehow only proving Tony Stark right about that petulant child thing.

"Wanda," Vision said hesitantly, "I was thinking of ways to alleviate your bad mood—would you like to help me cook something else? The paprikash will take some time to simmer; is there anything else you'd like to make in the meantime?"

Wanda sat on her bed with her knees to her chest, her arms tightly around them. She didn't want to 'hang out and past time' with Vision. She wanted to be out in the world—making right wrongs, fixing the brokenness out there. She couldn't, though. People wouldn't let her, because they feared her. She hated that they feared her. She longed for someone to understand her as she truly was; she was too mad at Vision to remember that he thought himself that someone. Her thoughts wandered to that one person who got her, who'd known her since birth, 'til death parted them: her twin, Pietro. He never feared her. He was always by her side. He was her best friend, her brother, her twin, her only family. He understood her, and now he was gone.

She didn't want to take up Vision's suggestion, but her thoughts became full of Pietro and Sovokia and times together, such as Christmases. She remembered a particular dish served traditionally in Russia that they also drank on Christmas Eve; she could taste the sweetness and the smoothness of it just thinking of it.

Vision had just turned with a sigh to go stir the paprikash when Wanda suddenly swung the door open. "Cranberry kissel," she said.

Vision blinked. "I'm sorry, I do not register that dish in my database. Could you elaborate?"

"Cranberry kissel, Pietro's favorite. I need cranberries and potato starch." Wanda flounced past him, stalking to the kitchen in such huge strides that Vision had to pick up his pace, despite his long legs, to keep up with her.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid Tony Stark doesn't keep potato starch in his pantry."

"Fine. Fetch some." Wanda threw open the fridge. "Maybe cranberry juice instead of water." She searched the cupboards like a dog intent on finding the bone his nose found. "The man keeps sugar in stock, doesn't he?"

"Won't cornstarch do? I hate to leave you alone here."

Wanda stopped short and glared at Vision. "Yes, I suppose you do." Then she did something that sent shivers of guilt and horror up and down her spine: she focused on Vision's eyes and let her consciousness and her want and needs flood him until she had his mind under her control. His eyes flared with red light. "Now," she said slowly and clearly, "go to the store and bring me back potato starch and cranberries. There will be no substitutions for Pietro's kissel."

Vision said nothing, indicated he heard nothing. Still, he followed her exact orders. He took a credit card from a drawer and put on a hoodie and blue cap and sunglasses to hide his red face (there was such an abundance of these three items it made Wanda wonder how many times Avengers used this exact outfit to go undercover). Then he left.

Wanda watched him through his mind's eye exit the bottom floor out onto the crowded sidewalks of New York City. She gazed out a window at him as she directed him to the nearest supermarket; the thought flitted across her mind, as he entered the supermarket and took up a green basket into the crook of his arm, that now was her chance. While Vision lay under her thumb, she could easily sneak out of Avengers Tower; she'd enchanted her guardian and led him astray, leaving him with no thoughts other than that of somehow finding potato starch in a New York City minimart. It was too easy.

That was it. It was too easy. The moment she left she'd be plagued by guilt, with the fact that the only reason she'd left was because she'd taken control of Vision's mind and manipulated him. She liked clever escapes, but this wasn't clever. This wasn't giving Vision a chance. It was the cowardly way to go.

And . . . oi, she didn't want to admit it, but a little part of her wanted to stay. She didn't want to go out into the streets of New York City and get plagued by people with cameras and the police. She didn't want to be caught and taken in to be interrogated. She didn't want to fight the police, either; imagine the damage she'd wreak trying to escape them. Imagine the civilians' lives she'd put in danger. She sighed, leaning against the window, watching the blissfully ignorant crowds mill around New York. She couldn't do that. She wouldn't admit it, but maybe . . . Tony Stark was right. Maybe it was safer if she was just locked away.

Vision found her like this, gazing out the glass at the people walking around with their anonymity and freedom. "Wanda? I've returned." He put down the plastic bag and held out the box of potato starch and cranberries. "I got everything."

Wanda didn't move; still, she let slip her hold over his mind. His vision cleared as he regarded her with his own eyes now. "You just took over my mind. You made me do things against my will."

Wanda scoffed. "I made you go grocery shopping, not terrorize the streets."

"That was wrong of you! I thought we, we were a team! Perhaps my own conceptions of reality are vastly different from your own, but still, that doesn't give you the right—!"

Wanda wasn't in the mood to talk about rights. "Please!" She held up her hands, and he quickly shut up. "Please, forgive me. Just—let's make cranberry kissel."

Vision, despite being quite unsure of female human emotions, understood the desperation in Wanda's eyes. "Of course. Tell me, first, what is cranberry kissel?"

Wanda took his arm and dragged him to the kitchen; his brain went haywire trying to interpret the electricity stun she hit him with. "It is a Russian drink. We, my brother and I, used to drink it on Christmas Eve, with our parents. Even after we were orphaned, it was so traditional that at every home and orphanage we were at, it was there at Christmas Eve. It was . . . a constant." Wanda swallowed and hurried on.

She didn't say a word as she got out the necessary kitchen tools. Vision had no idea how to make cranberry kissel, but he helped her. She didn't tell him what to do or take over his mind to make him know how to make it; he just instinctively knew what she needed him to do.

The cranberries boiled in hot water until their skins burst; she stirred them long after they were cooked. There was something soothing in stirring the traditional mixture with a wooden spoon; she stood there for a long time, listening to the boiling juice and smelling the bubbling paprikash next to it.

Vision had a strainer ready; she strained the mixture, poured the juice back into the saucepan, and cooked it as she picked at the cooked cranberries. Sugar and potato starch were whisked into the juice. She held out her hand as a signal for Vision to stop adding each; she knew just the right amount to put in.

He watched her with soft eyes that wanted her to speak. She said nothing. She stirred the mixture until it was just shy of geling. He instead sighed and fetched two mugs. She quickly poured some of the smooth, velvety red sauce into each mug. Setting aside the saucepan, she took up her mug. Vision did the same. For the first time since she'd taken over his mind, she looked him in the eye. "Для друзей," she whispered.

His mind retrieved the translation from the files running around like crazy in his mind. "'To friends,'" he said. He tapped his mug to hers. She nodded and took a long sip; she closed her eyes and let the warmth of the drink and its memories flood her. She let out a long, almost happy sigh, and opened her eyes to see Vision look as embarrassed as a synthetic being could. "I can't drink this," he said, practically blushing.

Wanda couldn't help it; she set down her mug and _laughed_. "I should've remembered that," she said.

"I'm sorry I can't. Still, I'm sure it's delicious. Besides," he said, and Wanda looked up and caught his eyes, strangely warm, "it's the thought that counts."

Wanda felt warm right then; her stressed-out thoughts and feelings melted away, forgotten, for just one beautiful moment; "Yes. It is the thought that counts." Her bad thoughts had, for a single moment of looking at him, been replaced with nothing but good thoughts—thoughts that counted.

 **Thanks for reading! Merry Christmas!**


End file.
